One part mom, three parts dads, 45 parts weirdness

Raging highs! Despondent and bereft lows! Tears, lashing out, and heartfelt apologies, all in the space of 93.6 seconds.

Every. Single. Mothereffing. Day.

Hello, pubic hair.

Goodbye holding hands in public.
Howdy-do, nose-hair-incinerating body odor. Let me introduce you to a good friend of mine, Mr. Old Spice, and his associate, Señor Axe. Kindly avail yourself of their products. Like, stat. Because the stank is at defcon 5. And I mean that in the nicest possible way.

Good evening mood swings, super nice to have you as my co-pilot. I hear you’ll be staying awhile. I suppose we should get cozy and settle in for the ride. I’ll grab the gin, you grab the tonic. I’ll meet you at the corner of Belligerent Ave and Volatile Way.

What’s shaking, newly-enlarged ballsack? I’ll be over here, pretending not to notice the Chia Pet that’s installed itself on you. Let me know when you need some clippers to trim that shit back.

Hey there, deep voice. Oh, goodbye deep voice. Hey there again, deep voi…oh…nope…you’re leaving again. Okay, see you in a minu…oh, there you are again! You’re like a crazed prairie dog, popping up all over the place.

Goodnight, cuddling in bed. And waking up happy. And clear skin. Oh, and rational conversations.

Invention of Velcro = 7:35am – putting my shoes on! 7:50am – almost done, just threading the end through the loop again 8:05am – I’ll just finish tying in the car. Mom, why are you crying?

Lyft = What’s a bus? What do you mean public transportation? Like, with other people I don’t know? Why? Do you hate me?

Google Maps = which way is north?

Screentime = (I can’t hear you I can’t hear you I can’t hear you I can’t hear you I can’t hear you I can’t hear you I can’t hear you)……………….Why are you yelling at me?

Motorized Everything = my legs hurt this hike is too long my book is all the way upstairs I’m too tired because today we had PE you don’t care that my legs are going to literally fall off.

Texting = What do you mean I have to talk to them in person? What do I say?! How do I say it?! What am I supposed to do?! (Hyperventilating)

Video games = can I just finish this one game it will take two minutes please please please it’s just this one very final last thing I have to do to get to the next level and if I exit out now I won’t EVER EVER EVER get here again it will just take five minutes and I don’t think you understand how important this is because if you did you would just let me finish these last ten measly minutes and what do you mean I have trouble self-regulating and I don’t know how to accept the answer?

Instacart / Blue Apron / Caviar = where are we this place is weird why are you giving me this list what do you mean I pull things off the shelf won’t someone else do that for me why are you making me push this weird metal thing with wheels on it Mom why are you crying?

Dash had to do a project about Jackson Pollock. He wrote an “autobiography” he will use to present a portrait of the artist while in character. He also had to create an original piece of art in the artist’s signature style.

Dash finished his splattered canvas yesterday.

This morning, I made a hand-rolled paper cigarette, complete with a purple “filter,” and wrote “whiskey” on an empty Gatorade bottle.

I told Dash this would be the one and only time I would remind him to grab his cigarette and whiskey before going to school.

There’s been a mound of clean clothes sitting in Dash and Ruby’s bedroom for a week. I think I actually heard the pile beg me to put it out of its ignominious-heap misery and just put it in the dirty hamper again. (I might have had two glasses of wine that night.) But I was determined to win this fucking battle.

So while I made dinner, I sent D and R upstairs to deal with the (talking) pile. Together. At the same time. Concurrently.

Logical outcome: D farts. R’s olfactory senses offended. R seeks out Febreze to fight rotting smell. D tries to grab can from R and R ends up spraying D. In the eye. With the fucking Febreze.

The level to which you fantasize about the productive, cooperative, loving, sweet-spawn evening you will have when you get home from work is the same level to which said spawn will stomp their stank-ass feet all over those fantasies. In other words, any parenting action on your part will engender an opposite, soul-crushing reaction on the part of your kids.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go see if I can stop my eye from twitching.